


Is This an Eye for an Eye

by hithelleth



Series: All the Things Gone Wrong [2]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Dark Character, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Insanity, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:32:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hithelleth/pseuds/hithelleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Republic is defeated, Monroe is made prisoner and tortured. Post 1x10. </p><p>
  <i>Sebastian wished he had never heard of Rachel Matheson.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is This an Eye for an Eye

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a smutty sequel to [Beneath the Surface](http://archiveofourown.org/works/694035) because [Timid_Timbuktu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Timid_Timbuktu/pseuds/Timid_Timbuktu) wanted to see Rachel riding Bass. I don’t think she meant it this way. I’m so sorry.

Bass had been in the cell for eight days as far as he could tell, the meals his only way of counting time. It was just bread and water, with a slice of dried cheese or a piece of cold meat.

He had refused water for three days for fear it had been drugged before the scorching throat forced him to give in. The fifth day he went a step further and ate the bread as well. No sign of drugs so far.

They wouldn't have even needed to drug him if they had kept going as they were. They had locked him up in the far end of the corridor, the cell had no light, no windows, and no one spoke to him. Three guards, yes, three – at least he had to give them credit for not underestimating him – came each day, two standing outside, pointing their weapons at him, as the third placed a plate with his daily meal and a jug of water on the floor and replaced his bucket with an empty one.

The only sounds that he heard in between the guards' visits were his own breathing and the echo of cement under his feet as he walked to and fro in his cell, counting the minutes. He tried all the tricks he knew in order not to fall into reminiscing the old times or inventing stories, the surest ways to lose the sense of what was real and what wasn't. He tried to stay up on his feet until exhaustion forced him to drop onto the cot for a couple hours of sleep, curled in foetal position to keep as warm as possible.

Day nine was different. The guards chained and blindfolded him, taking him somewhere, smart enough to turn him around a few times on the way so he couldn't tell where they went. Which was pointless, in retrospective. He knew where he was the second the blindfold was off. But what could he expect of these imbeciles.

He didn’t have much time to speculate whether it was a coincidence they had brought him to this very chamber or not. There was a bath waiting and fresh clothes which strangely resembled the militia uniform. He had to wash and change with three guns pointed at him which took some of the enjoyment away. He discovered the clothes actually were a militia uniform, sans the jacket, and they didn’t let him put on the boots.

He first thought that variation might not be that good when they tied him onto a chair, the ropes cutting into his arms and legs. They left him alone, wondering what would come next.

He looked around the room. On a table nearby there was a decanter filled with clear liquor, probably tequila, since there were also lemon slices and salt. It definitely piqued his interest. The guards also left a bowl of water and a towel behind. Other than that and the fact that he was tied to a chair, the room was just as he remembered.

The relief when she entered the chamber was only momentary. Her voice was as soft as ever, but colder. She placed the package she had brought with her on the table. It looked suspiciously familiar and it made him uncomfortable, though he couldn’t say why.

He thought he knew the game when she asked about his well-being, tried to play it as well as she had in the reversed position. But there was something strange in her demeanour, something that made him – no, not afraid, Sebastian Monroe was not afraid – disconcerted, that was the word. At least until she unwrapped the package. The instruments were shiny, neatly placed in a row.

He didn’t believe she would really go ahead with it. It was just a play. Trying to make herself feel better, more powerful by getting back at him a little. He even admitted she had a right to, only to himself, of course. But she wouldn’t do anything serious, he tried to convince himself.

He went on the way he usually did, trying to flirt and charm her, telling her she could have just said so if she wanted him naked when she started unbuttoning his shirt. They could have been done with it years ago.

He refused to believe what was actually going to happen even when she picked up a scalpel. She looked hot when she came close, inspecting his torso as a painter might look at a canvas trying to determine where to draw the first line. His cock grew half-hard.

He denied what was happening even when she made the first cut. The second. The third. The fourth. He stopped counting at fifteen, well past thinking this was arousing in any way, his mind flustered about what was going on.

He pressed his lips together and clenched his fists, focused on breathing, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of hearing even a gasp from him. He had endured worse than this.

Finally, she stopped, looking at him appraisingly, as an artist satisfied with her work. She put down the scalpel and he caught himself just in time not to sigh with relief. She would give up this game any minute now.

She went to the table, poured herself a shot, sipping it while she walked back towards him.

The splash surprised him. He cried out as the liquor ran down his chest, burning the open wounds.

“Disinfection”, she explained matter-of-factly. “You wouldn’t want those to fester, would you?”

He didn’t answer.

She paused, thinking.

“Oh, I am sorry. I did it wrong. The wounds should have been washed first, right?”

He didn’t understand what she was doing anymore.

She was surprisingly gentle while washing him, the lukewarm water soothing, though it caused the cuts to bleed more.

He expected it, this time, when she picked a slice of lemon and stalked towards him.

The lemon juice burned differently than the alcohol. He blinked back the tears that reflexively sprang to his eyes.

She washed the acid juice out.

The salt burned yet differently.

She would be done now that she had made use of everything she had.

He was wrong.

There was the liquor again. And the lemon juice. And salt. Again. And again. The water in the bowl turned red with his blood. He bit his lip and dug his nails into his palms, breathing harshly, but not giving her the satisfaction of making a sound. It didn’t hurt any less.

She used up all the lemon slices, spilling a generous amount of liquor over his chest for the finale.

“Disinfection,” she repeated.

It was over.

Except that she was back with a new instrument in her hand.

Her eyes were the same as always, guarded, cold, emotionless.

“Where should I use this?” she asked. “Somewhere where people can’t see, no? Toes, then.”

“Rachel, you don’t want to do this. I have never done this to you.” He wasn’t beyond pleading at this point.

“No. Sergeant Strausser did. I didn’t have as much practice as he, so this won’t be as neat.” Her voice was cool, detached.

She kneeled before him.

He didn’t scream. He scraped his palms and bit his lip so hard he bled, and he couldn’t hold tears from streaming down his face. But he didn’t scream. Maybe moaned, just a little.

“Damn, I ruined the carpet,” she complained when she finished. He felt sick.

She brought the boots to him.

“Better put these on,” she looked at his left foot. “Not symmetrical, but it will have to wait for the next time. I have a meeting in five.” She put on his boots, wrapped the package and left without looking back.

The guards took him to his cell, shoving him forward when he limped too slowly.

He collapsed on the cot. He felt enraged. That was why he didn’t seem to know how to breathe properly. Or was this a panic attack? Shock. That was it, shock. He tried to sort out his thoughts.

The good side of his little toe, nail-less now, hurting like hell – how can something so little hurt so much? He’d had much worse wounds – was that he almost forgot about the cuts.

Somewhere between trying to put his thoughts in some sort of order that would make sense and being continually disrupted by the throbbing pain spreading from his toe into his foot he started drifting off.

Just then the lock in the door moved. The door opened slowly, carefully, whoever was coming in obviously trying to be secretive.

He couldn’t discern more than a shadowy shape coming closer. But he could recognise the fragrance, he could always recognise it.

The shadow climbed onto his cot, straddled him.

She sat on his thighs, her skirt pooling around her. She ran her fingers through his hair, caressed his face, ever so gently.

She didn’t say a word, bending down, her hair falling on his face. She probed at the seam of his lips with her tongue, slipping inside as he granted her access, exploring, licking, tasting his mouth. She ran her hands over his arms, along his sides, tentatively, careful not to touch his wounded chest.

He understood now.

It had been a play, they must have had a hold on her, the Georgians or the rebels or both, so she had had to go along with it.

He lay still, his blood pooling in his groin when she broke the kiss and reached for his pants. He watched her take him in her hands, stroking him to full hardness with practised moves, her hair hiding her face.

She let go of him and threw her hair back, unbuttoning her blouse. He could see her pale skin now, her hands caressing her body in sensual motions from her throat, over her breast, to her belly. She leaned over him again, brought her left breast right to his mouth, her hard nipple teasing his lips. He caught it between his teeth, squeezed lightly, eliciting a gasp from her, before closing his lips around it and sucking hard.

She pulled away, sitting up. She ground against him. No panties. Bare flesh. Hot, slick. She took him inside her and this time he didn’t fight back a groan as her warm, moist sheath enveloped him. She started moving, up and down, faster and faster, rubbing her sex with two fingers. He kept her eyes on her, just as beautiful as he had imagined, his control slipping away quickly. She tightened around him, shuddering as she came, and he let himself go, moaning her name.

She collapsed on his chest, forgetting about the cuts in the moment of ecstasy.

Bass flinched, blinking. He was lying on his stomach, having rolled around in his sleep. His chest was burning.

He turned around, hitting the mattress with his right foot, a searing pain surging up from his little toe.

He was alone in his cell.

The days continued as before. Meals once a day. Silence.

He wrapped his injured toe with a strip torn from the sheet, hoping it wouldn’t get infected. Scabs formed on the cuts on his chest, fortunately clean, due to the alcohol.

When they took him upstairs again, he didn’t have any illusions. Well, maybe some. But not the next time. And certainly not the one after.

The pain became constant. He couldn’t count footsteps anymore. Time became a stretch of different levels of hurting. Reality was the last thing he tried to hold on to. But he caught himself more and more often inventing stories. Of things he would have done differently. Of events that had taken another course than they actually had.

The nights were the worst. Then the illusions mixed with reality into nightmares. No matter how much he tried to think of something else, of other people, of women with black hair and young, slender bodies, it was always Rachel in the end.

He expected she would want some information – on weapons, on Jeremy’s whereabouts, on something. She never asked anything. Not that he would have told her.

He had never done this to her. He told her that, somewhere between pulling off his fifth or sixth nail. She shrugged and continued her doing.

That night he didn’t stop crying after they’d thrown him back on his cot. It was the first of many.

At the eighth nail he begged her to ask him questions. He might have, no, probably would have, answered them, too. What would she do when she ran out of toes?  

And yet, he still dreamed of her. Dreamed, and cursed her. He wished he would have never seen her again. He wished he would have never heard of Rachel Matheson at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I didn’t mean it to go like this. This story got a life of its own when I was about 300 words in and it just went its own way. It is not my fault. Also, this will now be a series. What do you think, will there be a happy ending for Bass? 
> 
> Unbeta’d, so tell me if you see something. Comments are always welcome.


End file.
